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Last week (Dream Log: October 13, 2004) I wrote a node about some recurring nightmares that I have. It wasn't all that well received but I felt better afterward, and I haven't had those dreams since I wrote about them. "That's a good thing" as MS would say.

I did have one new dream that's kind of related and yet it is a new one. Not worth a new dream log I guess. I'm a prisoner (again) of some grungy bearded warlord, nasty like a Blackadder character instead of all heroic like Braveheart or something. But unlike the other dream it's obvious that they're going to hurt me, the warlord guy hates me and fears me all at once. He orders me to drawing and quartering. The Hanged, drawn and quartered node says this didn't happen to women, but it does to me, and there's no hanging first. I felt the ropes burning my wrists and ankles and then the tension in the ropes and then I woke up with a start. I kicked Artie a good one and gave him a severe charlie horse, he was pretty pissed.

I talked about this with the therapist, who says I need to try lucid dreaming. Turns out that here on E2 is a lot of stuff about it, which is likely mostly bullshit, but maybe some of it can help.

Speaking (or writing) of bullshit, do you remember I wrote about some lead crystal goblets I won on eBay? Well, they came today, via UPS. These bastards not only charge an outrageous fee to fly my stuff air from South Africa, then there's a "Fuel Surcharge", but then there's a brokerage fee which is almost as much as I paid for the item, and THEN there's TAX on the FEE. What kind of BULLSHIT is that??? What's the UPS slogan? "It's Brown" or something. IT'S BROWN ALL RIGHT!!

At least the goblets arrived intact. So I'm going to post my vendor feedback on eBay and then go to bed and try some of the lucid dreaming tips. See if that helps, or if I can at least control the dream a bit to see what it's all about.

Good freakin' gravy, this has been one of those weeks.

Monday, I'll grant you, was pretty slow.

Tuesday wasn't too bad, aside from work being super-busy, having to skip lunch, and having to go to the irritating Grocery Store Filled With Idiots after work.

"Hey, are y'all carrying that Mountain Dew Pitch Black? That stuff's good."

"Naw, we're not stocking that anymore. It was too much trouble to keep restocking it over and over."

"Wait, you're not carrying it because it was popular? You were selling a lot of 'em, so you went with a product that fewer people wanted?"

"Hey, pal, don't try to tell me how to run my store."

Wednesday was pretty hellish. I'd taken the day off so I could take my 93-year-old grandmother to a very rare flu-vaccine clinic. Her doctor decided he didn't want to deal with ordering flu vaccine this year, so we've been trying to find someplace that would give her a shot. The clinic was scheduled to start at 8:30 in the morning. We got there a little after 7, and the parking lot was already full. There was a two-block line outside the place. We decided to skip it. She's 93. She can't stand all that long. No way I'm gonna let her stand in the sun for hours, get an awful sunburn, maybe fall and break her hip. We'll have to keep looking for a less-crowded clinic.

After getting some errands done at the bank and the post office, I got a call from my brother. His car had broken down, and he needed me to give him a ride so he could try to change the alternator. Neither of us had ever had to change an alternator, the car repair book he'd found was vague on the details, and he didn't have the right tools anyway. We still spent about 90 minutes pretending we had a chance at it, though.

And then, that evening, my grandmother called, worried to death, because my diabetic uncle was supposed to go in for emergency surgery the next morning to have one of his fingers removed. A few hours later, the doctors changed their minds and decided they'd try to save it for a bit longer, but still, that was another dollop of stress to top off my day.

Thursday was okay until after work. My brother had found someone from his office who knew how to change an alternator, so they were out at the parking lot getting that done. But my bro hadn't been back by his house since before 8 a.m., so his dog had been cooped up in her crate all day. So he called me and asked me to take her out, put her in the yard to relieve herself, and give her a bowl of dog food. Well, I got there way too late. She hadn't been able to hold in. Stinky. I had to give her a bath, then go hose out the crate. Everything still stunk, though. I didn't know how to disassemble her crate so I could get it properly cleaned, so rather than leave her to roam the house with no supervision, I stuck around for several hours. By the time I finally got home, I had time to pay some bills, then go to bed.

On Friday, half the office -- hell, just about half the campus -- was absent for completely unspecified reasons. I had two last-second projects, given to me by people who assumed I could get every TV station in the state to show up for a ceremony announcing a $2,000 grant from a local soda bottler. The cops and ambulances were seemingly running their sirens constantly, which after a while, really starts making you crazy. And I had to skip lunch again. I hate being hungry.

So on Saturday, after a week like this, I was in the mood for a goddamn beer. A little background: Lubbock is a weird town. You can buy liquor at various restaurants, but there are no package sales in the city limits. So if you want a six-pack of beer, you've got to go to the Strip, just outside of the city limits, where they have a half-dozen liquor stores. They're crowded with college students and bums most nights. Saturdays are far worse.

And this Saturday was apparently breaking all kinds of records for end-of-week lunacy. No full moon, so that's not an excuse. There were way, way too many bums and college students sitting around the parking lot, either drunk or stoned into near-catatonia. To be honest, I was having trouble telling the students from the bums. Everyone was filthy. Everyone stunk. Everyone looked like they'd been in a fight. I went in, grabbed my beer, paid for it, and got back into the car. Just narrowly avoided some really fucked-up panhandlers who were apparently going to bearhug me into giving them change.

Had a guy try to wash my windshield at the stop light on the way back. Too bad he didn't use a rag. Too bad he got blood and other crap all over my windshield. I thought of rolling down the window to yell at him, 'cause by this point, I was really getting mad, but I also didn't want this blood-soaked lunatic to get mad at me and come through my window after me.

Seemed like the panhandlers were everywhere tonight, so I went straight inside my apartment after I got home. Didn't bother to clean the windshield, which means it'll be a bitch to wash off tomorrow.

Got inside the apartment, and the phones had stopped working.

And there were people screaming in the parking lot outside for half the night. By now I'd had it. I went outside and yelled at 'em (more panhandlers, dammit) to shut up. One of the fuckers actually bit me on the arm. Of course, I gave up at that point, went back inside, locked the door good, and washed my arm. I'll be going to the hospital tomorrow morning, if the phones don't start working before that.

Jesus, I'm getting so fucking hungry. I hate being hungry.

It's been quite a while since I've done a straight-up day log. But then again, I've never had to throw a punch before. So I reckon this is a special occasion.

One of the PhD. students in my department, Paul, likes to cook big dinners on Friday evenings for his friends. I went last week, and he'd cooked just about the best pork roast I've ever eaten. Seriously, I didn't even need a knife. He told me then that there was a standing invitation for future Fridays, and I decided that it's a hell of a way to feed myself. I haven't been getting enough meat in my diet, you know.

Paul only lives about five blocks away, but it's on the other side of Hess Village. Hess is a block of bars and pubs where folks go to get smashed and hook up. It's our "meat market" — every town's got one. Ours is as sleazy and rough as any. And I had to pass through it to reach whatever feast was planned for that night.

Now, really, I never expect trouble in places like that. I just avoid them because of the general vibe. So, tonight, maybe, I shoulda heeded that vibe, and taken a longer route to Paul's; but I decided to just plod on down, because dammit, I was hungry. Just my luck to have picked this night to ignore my gut intuition (ironically, for the sake of my gut itself).

So I get about three quarters of the way down the street, and this fucking drunk comes stumbling up the sidewalk. I realize pretty quick he's looking for trouble, because he's deliberately trying to walk into me. When I step to the left to go around him, he steps to the left as well, into my path again. I step right, he steps right. You know. So I'm getting closer to him now, and I can just tell the guy is seriously not well — he smells like, well christ, not even like booze, just like shit and rancid sweat and something else ripe that I can't even begin to imagine where it came from, kinda like when you've been cooking a lot over the last couple of weeks but you've forgotten to take the garbage out. So, I figure, I'll just cross the street now and walk on the other side; but I've left this decision too late, and the guy grabs my overcoat and spins me around.

This dude isn't even saying anything, really, he's just kinda clawing at my coat and grunting. I don't know of this guy thinks he's going to fight me, or take my wallet, or rape me or some shit; the guy was totally incoherent. He was drooling, but I guess that doesn't mean much because I've never seen or smelled a motherfucker as wasted as this guy. So, I tell him to let go, and when I doesn't, I punch him in the face and run.

Now, like I said before, I ain't never punched anyone before. But I know enough about anatomy to know your fist isn't supposed to be covered with some kind of greasy, bloody pus. And jesus it reeked. This guy had some serious bad juju going on. But he went down, which was all that mattered; and I was pretty proud of myself for it — my first punch and all. (Yeah, even if the dude could hardly keep himself up in the first place. Whatever, it's my boner, don't harsh on it.)

It was only another block to Paul's house, so I rushed there. Maybe I shoulda waited at the "scene", I dunno, but I didn't feel like waiting for the cops to show up while this guy was getting back up again. So, I went to Paul's bathroom to wash my hand (it was pretty disgusting, and the smell lingered), and then I called 911. A couple of cops came by, and I told them what'd happened and gave them my phone number and address and all that, and they said they'd head on up to Hess and see if they could find the guy. If there were any problems they said they'd come back and find me. So, that was out of the way, and after the cops left we all sat down for supper. It was really, really good (roast beef) and I was really hungry, but the smell on my hand still made me gag a little whenever I put it near my mouth, so I sprayed some Fabreeze on it and then used my other hand to eat.

I took another route back, obviously. But on the way home, I think I heard gunshots coming from Hess. I don't know if it had anything to do with this quarantine-case I met earlier. Hell, maybe it was just late-night construction. But it sounded like gunshots, and all of it just strengthened my resolve not to go near Hess ever again.

Anyway the kicker is, now I can't sleep and I'm running a temperature. What do you want to bet I caught something from that fucker, in the line of defending myself? Just my luck. Maybe I should go to the hospital, find out whether I got contaminated. Jesus, if I'm not over this by Monday, I'm going to have to call my department and tell them I can't run my tutorial. The students never do their readings, and the last thing I want to do is get up, sick, in front of a bunch of damn zombies.

(News Item) William Shatner aims for real 'Star Trek'

Friday, October 22, 2004 Posted: 10:40 AM EDT (1440 GMT)

LONDON, England -- William Shatner wants to boldly go where he's only pretended to go so far.

The "Star Trek" star is among more than 7,000 people who have told Richard Branson they would gladly pay him $210,000 (£115,000) for a trip aboard his planned spacecraft, the entrepreneur said Friday.

I will now recount for you a tale, if I may.

When I was a young lad, I was a Star Trek FANATIC. I loved that show, what it represented, and the critique to our society it provided. There was a time I found myself sitting with my mother and home-room teacher (A Jesuit Priest, I was attending Fordham Prep at the time) discussing my scholastic situation. Father Ghiblin (I may have the spelling wrong, it was a long time ago) told my mother in front of me that I would amount to nothing as long as I inhabit my "Star Trek dream world".

Today I am an editor at a major electronic engineering magazine, writing about advanced technologies and proselytizing forward development via increased industry communication. I strive to create a world, if not a "Star Trek dream world" at least one where mankind is free of this fragile bassinet and roaming the stars. I got my passion from his over-the-top enthusiastic portrayal of a futuristic Horatio Hornblower. I envy him tremendously in his actualization of our mutual dream of reaching the stars.

You Don't Have to Be a Rocket Scientist...the Blog!
Feel free to check out my user profile, friends list, and contact info while you're here!

Previous Week

10/23/14 - 8:53 AM EST

My apologies for not having updated in the last week. It's been like hell in a hand basket, fitting for my first week here at NASA. And I mean that in the worst way possible. First the satellite de-orbit that I was brought in specifically to assist with goes batshit. It got delayed 3 days because of extreme solar flares and the resulting solar winds. Then, when we were finally able to bring her in, she comes apart halfway through the stratosphere. I will neither discuss how long it took to find fragments larger than my testicle, nor that poor farmer's cow. Yuck.

Thankfully, we found the diagnostic pod, and Hank willing, it was intact.

The guys in Tech ops are going to have a field day, once the thing passes quarantine protocols. Me, I'm getting 3 hours bunk time after a week of 36 hours days. Fucking government contracts.

10/23/14 - 10:35 AM EST

So much for the catnap. Pressure from Washington to find out why their $20 billion hi-res imaging satellite came apart mid re-entry was so high they decided to bypass all containment guidelines. They were able to convince the goddamn Commanders-in-Brief that the 1500 degrees experienced during crashdown were sufficient preventative measures, and they barely gave me and the Biotech team enough time to prepare a counter-argument. We threw up the fact that such an action was in blatant violation of the Opportunity Protocols especially in light of that outbreak last year from the returning rovers, but I'll be damned if that mattered to them. Words like "accountability" and "error analysis" trump "biological contamination" and "space-borne diseases."

Tossers. I wish upon them a vile incurable strain of laryngitis, just so they never spew any hot air in my general direction again.

Regardless, it's quite cathartic to finally be able to pay some attention to this blog.

Which reminds me, I need to catch up on posts to the "Show your boobs" usergroup. I mighta missed me some fine titty.

10/23/14 - 11:08 AM EST

Every staffer on base from Tech Ops has been working non-stop on retrieving data from the black box, and they've come back with some preliminary info. Now, I can't get into it fully, being as that it's "classified" and "of national security," yadda yadda yadda, but it seems that the hull pressure sensors experienced a rapid series of spikes over a period of 11 minutes. Several of the spikes were sufficient to exceed the hull's theoretical limits, and knowing how over inflated our specs tend to be, I wouldn't be surprised if that threshold was 30% lower.

I'll tell you this off the record - Don't book any goverment space flights during the last week of the month - Inspections are kinda lax around then. And you didn't hear it from me.

Regardless, voltage irregularity went way outside spec at that point, no doubt to interference from solar radiation. You heat that thing up to 1500 degrees, and all those little hull cracks are gonna get a helluva lot bigger. In layman's terms - Satellite go boom.

Anyways, they were hoping to get something from the imaging data, since the satellite uplink for video downloading was disabled for the entire week prior to the re-entry, but apparently, those hull flaws led to corruption of the data drive. Jesus Christ, who the hell uses magnetic storage these days? Even the private sector's using holographic data storage. I'll bet it has something to do with the bloated bureaucracy around here depleting parts budgets, but then, that's every government branch.

The tech guys think they can hammer out a de-corruption algorithm to fix the compressed video, and they've managed to get Lawrence Livermore to pony up some free megaflops, so we might get this thing done before lunch.

Oh, and note to self - Start winter influenza prevention methods early. Stock up on zinc, vitamin C, and garlic, coworker's olfactory senses be damned. Me and the rest of moderately healthy United States of Microsoft wasn't eligible for the vaccine this year, shortage and all. I've yet to hear any viable excuses for how 75% of the flu manufacturing capacity could be diverted to meet demand on Shevitra, but the PharmCos never fail to confound.

I'll have to start early this year, especially after seeing how under-the-weather some of the TechOps guys are. I know geeks are supposed to be pasty and all, but their beige computers look bloody ivory in comparison. The alpha tech's got some of the nastiest oozing sores I've ever seen, and I've seen stoners with less bloodshot eyes. Don't even get me started on the noises coming from the restroom on this floor. It sounds like some of them are literally vomiting their guts out; I nearly lost my lunch just passing by, and I was in a frat for chrissakes. I haven't used this floor's bathroom since.

They said the flu was gonna be nasty this year, but Jebus. I'm about ready to take a gamble and try and snag some off eblackmarketbay.com.

10/23/14 - 1:42 PM EST

Video reconstruction's done. Woot. The geek squad got sent back to the dorms immediately afterward, because apparently they were getting sicker than death. The janitorial team got called in half a dozen times in the last 2 hours alone to mop up their spew, and for his troubles he actually got ralphed on to boot. Bad day to be a custodial engineer, that's for sure.

But, we've got video. We lost about 70% of the frames, but we've got a clearer picture of what happened. Apparently, a cloud of space debris, pebbles in size mostly, slammed into the thing the day before re-entry, during the solar wind flareup. Where it came from is anyone's guess, but we've got some math wizzes lunching with some astro-nerds calculating trajectories and plotting planetary locations and a whole bunch of mumbo-jumbo to figure out where the shit came from.

I'm pretty much idled now, filling out debriefing papers so my ass is covered in case of a freakin' inquisition into the mondo fuckup this past week has been. I'm pretty much in the clear though, thanks to my limited involvement and late arrival.

I had garlic bread for lunch today, with extra garlic. My coworkers hate me already, I can tell, but I'll be damned if I catch whatever the fuck's going around.

On a lighter note, there's word going around that the bumfuck farmer with the perforated cow already has a multimillion dollar lawsuit lined up against the goverment. I love litigation.

10/23/14 - 3:28 PM EST

Venus. That shit was from VENUS. Get this, you're gonna love it. The sun starts solar flaring, sending these blazing solar winds out into space, which are powerful enough to penetrate Venus's atmosphere, send some planetary debris flying out BACK into space, which hauls ass through space to slam into our goddamn satellite.

You can't make this shit up, it's so weird.

And I'm investing in one of those Michael Jackson face masks. More and more coworkers are getting ill, and I heard rumors they had to send ambulances out to the Tech guy's dorm rooms, they were so violently ill. One of them managed to claw and bite his way through 2 EMS's before he was able to be restrained, he was so fucking out of it.

Definitely eating more garlic for dinner.

10/23/14 - 5:19 PM EST

I'm ready to call it a day and get my contract ass off base. They're about to call in the National Guard and quarantine the place, but fat shit lotta good that's gonna do; half a dozen people already got meat-wagoned off to a private hospital.

I've taken to wearing that surgeon's mask, and I'm thankful I did. Some asshole cowork stumbled up to me, obviously after having had a few cocktails on the job (and people wonder why shit goes wrong here?), and tries to spit up in my face. I actually had to slug the guy to get him off me. God, those eyes. They were so glazed over I questioned if this guy wasn't on a half a dozen other substances. I actually saw a vein burst in his eyes while he had me down.

I'm definitely gone for today. I'm not getting paid enough to get puked on.

10/24/14 - 9:39 AM EST

Someone just called my house and said not to come into work today, I quote, "The base is swarming with zombies." Now, I've heard a lot of bullshit in my day, but that's gotta be the most ridiculous way of sacking someone go I've ever heard of. I mean, I know I didn't stay late yesterday, but christ. I'm only human.

I don't even think I'll bother throwing this little snafu on my resume. Zombies. I'm going back to bed. I feel half dead.

The reason we don't have good science fiction...

Is because the vast majority of American television audiences think like this:

jellyneckr
Virginia

Date: 24 July 2004
Summary: The worst show of all time next to The O.C.
The 2002-2003 television season featured tons of unwatchable shows, more unwatchable shows than any other recent television season. Out of all of the unwatchable shows put out that season, this was the worst one. Then again, it was created by the guy that gave us "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" so of coarse it was going to suck. I considered this the worst show of all time until The O.C. came on the air last summer. Maybe this show would have been watchable if the acting and special effects weren't so unbelievably bad. Yet despite the atrocious special effects and acting, the show somehow developed legions of fans and found its way onto DVD. Now a FIREFLY movie is being made. It will no doubt be the worst movie ever made, even worse than YOU GOT SERVED.

FUCK.

YOU.

I'm so pissed off about this show being cancelled, no doubt because of COMPLETE AND UTTER FUCKLEAVINGS LIKE THIS, that I'm going to wait to write my review on IMDB. And it will be glowing. This show is the best science fiction I have seen on television, ever.

God damnit I am angrier about this than I should be.

But seriously WHAT THE FUCK. "Bad special effects"?! No, this was no Lord of the Rings, but it's made by fucking Fox. Were you mad at the lack of fwoosh and zoom in the space scenes? How about that there were no firey explosions in the vacuum, or any sound during scenes set in vacuums at all? Or that there were more bullets than lasers? Or that there was no peaceful space-exploring utopia with snazzy uniforms and morally infallible characters? Or that there was no super spooky, pseudoscientific, metaphysical bullshit beyond what was immediately required by the concept of a `supernormal brain'? I AM SORRY, AM I OFFENDING YOU? OFFENDING YOU WITH SCIENCE? OFFENDING YOU WITH REASON?

Lucas and Roddenberry have both saved and ruined science fiction. Yes, it's almost entirely due to their creations that we even have any pop culture sci-fi media, but their laser-blasting, noisy space-dogfights in AERODYNAMIC SPACESHIPS have made expectations for `science fiction,' as a genre, completely fucking skewed. The average person hears "sci-fi" and thinks "Star Wars." I fucking love Star Wars (with the exception of the newest movies). But I love it for what it is: Space Opera. Science is not involved in any way, not even the fictional way. And Star Trek can kick ass, but damn it. It's got more logic holes in its little fictiverse than I care to address, because it's already been addressed countless times and there's no way people would watch it if it weren't mostly gibberish. Galaxy Quest established this, soundly.

In closing: Google your username, "jellyneckr," you ignorant, tasteless little peasant. You'll find this entry, because Google loves my Livejournal like a fat kid loves cake, and I want you to see my rage. And if you comment, you can bet your ass I'll ban the shit out of you. DO NOT PASS GO. DO NOT COLLECT 200 COMMENTS. GO DIRECTLY TO JAIL, WHERE A VERY LARGE MAN IS GOING TO MAKE YOU HIS CAMWHORE.

I'm a mature individual in this respect.

I had no intention of daylogging again anytime soon, but the last two days have played like the prologue to a bad movie, low-key good things with moments of weirdness stumbling through.

Or, to be more precise, moments of weirdos.

First, though: I guess the big news for me, if not the universe, is that we will be reviving ...Shadows.... Sure, other plays we've workshopped over the years have been bigger, friendlier, bring-the-kiddies crowd-pleasers, but none have had the lasting effect of that one, nor garnered the kind of responses. Also, every time we create one of these shows we seem to stagger further from the original premise, which was to create theater based on the experiences of teens. Maybe this will bring us back to basics.

Paula, a young English teacher and soccer coach has gone gung-ho for the project, and has been actively recruiting the kind of guys who often don't turn out for things dramatic. She has no experience of the original, and I think her perspective will really help me with the rewrite. We also have three other adults on board for various duties, so we should be okay. I talked to the kid brother of the original Kevin; he saw the show when he was in elementary school, loved it and, now a high school senior with several local and high school plays under his belt, would really like to do this one. He still has to decide about auditioning, because there's a Community Players production starting up about the same time.

So, here's hoping.

I managed to get away from work early Thursday, and drove to Hyde Park. This is not the park of that other London, but a small town nearby. The huge antique warehouse there is like a literal E2, where you wander through a maze and every corner brings you childhood toys, odd comics, decades-old furniture, 1950s novelties, history.

Anyway, I was buried deep in the back section, with only one other guy nearby, and I'm looking at some underpriced original line Star Wars figures to see if I could find any my nephew would want in his collection. I'm not even thinking about the other patron; the last human beings I've seen there were two old ladies looking through cross-stitching books. Then I smell something, not antique dust mites but something more foul, and turn and this guy is standing two feet away from me, slack-jawed. I move aside in case he's wanting to look through this collection of miniature Lucas and DC heroes, but no, he just stands there, staring vacantly, and makes a noise like, hrrrrr.

I decide I need to move on, and practically have to walk through this mummy-like moron. What the hell? I've never seen street people in the wee town of Hyde Park before; it just isn't big enough. Surely its dispossessed move to London.

Maybe it's the big-box Wal-Mart and Price Club they've just put up in former farmers' fields across the road.

Last night, Friday, Nancy and I head to our local place to meet Singularity Girl and have dinner. It's changed, of course. They've redone the bar section, reduced the pool tables from 42 to a handful, and installed bowling lanes in the back-- though they've done a wonderful job of keeping the sound out of the front portion. A younger Singularity Girl had been a writer on the original ...Shadows..., and is enthused about the revival/re-workshopping. She talks about her new job, and about Michael. She's not sure about this guy and still has very mixed feelings regarding, uh, her mixed feelings. She misses her ex-girlfriend. Her personal drama gets a cheesy joke parallel in the fact that she couldn't decide between meat or seafood on her pizza.

Well, it was funny at the time.

Later that evening, we're heading home and we see a bunch of guys wandering out of the parking lot. They look a little drunk, a little slow.

They head to Adelaide Street-- a major, four-lane north/south conduit and busy on a Friday night. Several of the houses on the other side have been decorated for Halloween. It's a mood-evoking, starless night.

And they walk right into the freaking traffic.

Cars screech. Fortunately, the light at Oxford has just turned yellow and the cars were slowing down. Tires screech, but no one, apparently, gets hurt. We stand and stare.

Asshole! someone yells.

In the streetlight, we can see these are not university students, bold with alcohol, but a weird mix of people. They stagger across the street like the Family Reunion of the Pithed.

We recover. I mention that her favourite movie has never been written up at E2, and this might be a place to start, if she wants to actually node. She's been doing a lot of her own writing, and she has signed up at E2.

Her ex still has her copy of it, she notes, and she frowns, mistily.

The semi-comatose pack makes it across the street, and staggers on.

Very quiet this morning.

I'm never wearing Axe deodorant again. I am dead fucking serious.

So my girlfriend got it for me because she thought it would smell good on me. See, I'm an Old Spice guy myself, but for some reason Old Spice reminds her of old people, so she's been looking for something else for me. I am, however, set in my ways, so it's been rough. That, and I hate the Axe commercials. No, seriously. "Guy wears deodorant then gets about twenty hot chicks just because he's wearing it, blah blah blah." Ugh. I hate advertising like that. It's enough to make me boycott a product, so I would never have owned the stuff if she hadn't have bought it for me.

Well, just a couple of hours ago, I decided to head to my local bar for a nice martini. I had been working today, so I grabbed the first deodorant I could find on the way out, which was the Axe. No sense walking around stinking just because of a bit of corporate hate, right? So I sprayed some on, then I left. I went straight into the dimly lit pub, and sidled up to the bar. Just a nod to the bartender was enough; he knows my drink of choice.

I had just taken my first sip when I heard the door open behind me. I turned around, and in walks, nay, staggers the hottest fucking blonde I've ever seen in my life. She stopped just inside the door, staring blankly around the bar.

I grinned to myself. I'm happily taken, so the usual thoughts were quite absent from my mind. No, I was thinking that this, without a doubt, is a woman who is truly fucked up on some Xanax, and that if I played my cards right, I might leave with a bit for myself.

She stumbled towards me. I half-raised my drink to her.

"If you're looking for a good martini, the bartender here really knows how to handle a bottle of gin," I ventured.

She stumbled to right in front of me. I gingerly pulled my martini out of the danger zone; she looked as if she might end up knocking it from my hand.

"Yeah, so like I was saying, the bartender here makes a killer drink. What's your name?"

She stared at me with those Xanax-deadened eyes, with her head cocked to one side. I saw her nostrils flare once, then twice.

"Ummm... So, I was thinking that maybe we cou-HuRRRK!"

See, that was when she straight grabbed me by the front of the shirt. I'm not even kidding. I don't know what they put in that Axe shit, but whatever it is, it works. She yanked me towards her as her head shot towards my neck, and I could feel her lips drunkenly working there.

"Ummm, hey, ahhh. Listen, lady, I think you've got the wrong idea. See, I'm kind of taken, and I, OWWWWWWW, MOTHERFUCKER!"

SHE BIT ME! The psycho bitch bit me! I mean, I've been come onto before, but I've never had some girl just come up and start chewing on my neck before. I yelled, and pushed her away. Apparently she couldn't take a hint, as she ended up taking most of my shirt with her. She hit the ground, and then she had the nerve to snarl at me! What the hell?! I decided that this might be a good time to vacate the premises, so I went for the door. I was almost out when I felt her grab my leg from behind, and this time her teeth sunk nearly an inch into my calf.

I don't know if anyone here has ever been bitten that hard before, but let me tell you, it HURTS. I screamed, and yanked away from her again. Then I did the only thing I could think of to do.

I kicked her in the face, as hard as I could. I don't usually hit women, but it was the only thing I could think of to do. Then when she slumped to the ground, I ran. I just kept running until I got home, then I locked the door behind me.

I've just now cleaned up and bandaged the wound. It's a really nasty looking bite, too. It's all red and swollen, and I sincerely hope it's not getting infected already. It hurt like a bitch to clean out, because of all the jagged skin around it. It's gonna scar, too. I took some hydrocodone I had laying around, but now that the adrenaline has worn off, it's really painful.

God, I can't believe that girl. This is the easily the craziest fucking thing that's ever happened to me. Ever. I think she may have been on something a little stronger than Xanax, in retrospect. I thought about calling the police, but I decided not to. Cops are utterly useless creatures, in my experience. They'd probably arrest me for the hydrocodone while some crazy woman is out running around biting people in bars. What's worse, I think the crazy cunt had the flu or something, because now I'm running a temperature now of over 100 degrees, but I feel really cold and I keep shaking. I just hope it wasn't rabies or something.

Fuck Axe deodorant. I'm never wearing that shit again.

More than anything, Halifax is a university town, and downtown Friday nights reflect the disproportionate amount of students that live here. Mostly, you can tell by the number of pub crawl groups (easily identifiable by their matching T-shirts and shiny plastic Mardi Gras-style necklaces) that stumble up the hill at Sackville Street between seven in the evening and about three in the morning. Being both underage and standoffish I tend not to take part, but the city is so lovely at night -- fairy lights hidden in shrubbery across from the public gardens and stars reflected in the harbour, and scarlet trees lit up by deliberately tacky antique-looking streetlamps -- that its allure is hard to resist.

They tell us not to walk alone at night. I've never put much store in that -- what can they threaten me with that I don't know about already? -- but after last night I think I might.

For the record, there is nothing more desolate than Barrington Street in the rain in the evening. I've promised myself many times that I wouldn't, but I found myself missing home despite my best intentions. King's residence long-distance bills are obscene at month's end already so to make myself feel more virtuous I walked to a payphone outdoors, in front of the strip of restaurants and shops.

Everyone I saw on the street made eye contact with me, but not one of them smiled. I kept trying to see my reflection in store windows to see if something was wrong, some smudge or feature out of place, but I saw nothing but a blur of black hurrying by. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of myself in a reflection and don't recognise it, and that always frightens me a little.

The rain was coming down in sheets and I was soaked to the skin and could barely hear the other end of the line. No-one was home and I had nothing to say so I didn't bother leaving a voicemail; it even gave me my dollar back afterward. Strangely enough it helped and I ended up feeling less overwhelmed despite being damp and shivering with cold.

Of course there were pub crawls on the way back, because there always are. I wasn't expecting them to be out in full force, though -- by then, maybe half past eleven, the rain was driving down in sheets, at a slant because of the wind coming in off the water. Most of the panhandlers had disappeared from the sidewalks, presumably to somewhere less inhospitable. And even the most vacuous idiots amongst the university crowd know to go inside out of the rain, unless they're going somewhere. Staggering from bar to bar hardly counts as "going somewhere", though, and it was a bit early for them to be finishing up -- and besides, some of them looked in rough shape, like they'd gotten into a number of fights that evening and come out on the wrong end of most of them.

Lucky for me all of them were on the other side of the street (the windy side, not sheltered from the rain by buildings) so there was no obligation to stop and talk. Probably for the best since I even saw some people I knew -- a girl from my History of Science course and her boyfriend, both of whom were looking pretty grim. Not walking together, either; relationship issues, no doubt. Maybe it was callous of me not to go over and see what was up, but it's not something I regret. I'll see them on Monday, anyway.

A bit further on a panhandler stopped me by stepping out onto the sidewalk in front of me. Holding an empty coffee cup from Tim Hortons and mumbling something I couldn't quite make out about change. He smelled vile -- not like sweat and the worn intimacy that comes from having worn the same clothes for weeks, but like a breath from the charnel house. To my credit I didn't gag -- instead I gave him the dollar from the payphone and a handful of change that I'd been saving for the laundromat (evidently he needed it more than I did), but he was insistent. Caught hold of my coat sleeve and said the same thing he'd said before again, only louder this time.

There's not much creepier than having a foul-smelling panhandler pulling on your sleeve and mumbling incoherently at you, with open-mouthed pub crawlers across the street milling around in front of the Khyber like they're drugged. Shook him off and took off up the street toward home; when I looked back he wasn't following me, instead he was shuffling the other way with an odd gait, like he'd lost his sense of balance.

No-one else stopped me the rest of the way home. Probably because there was no-one else on the street, from Spring Garden all the way back to campus. My sleeve still smells like something crawled into it and died, and now so does my entire room. Woke up this morning with an awful hacking cough and a pounding headache. Midterms this week and a paper coming due on Monday. I think I'll stay in tonight.

Sheeeyit. I know I promised, long ago, that for the greater good of all mankind and for all the little children in the world, I would never daylog again. But, my fellow noders, some seriously fucked-up shit has been going down in Andalucia.

My life since I moved back home has been approximately as interesting as watching paint dry. Reeeally slow paint. I've been waiting for over three months for the paperwork on my residency to go through; I'm pretty sure they have a pack of trained monkeys urinating on it right now. Until I get my green card-or-equivalent, though, there's damn all for me to do.
I can't register for classes. I can't get a job. I can't even get on a train, plane, or donkey cart, because my passport was one of the documents requisitioned by the simian attack squad. If it weren't for high-speed internet access, they probably would have had to wrap me in cotton and put me on valium.

My life has become a series of daily routines designed to keep me, if not happy, at least sane. The broken-backed red chair in front of the computer calls my name, from the wee hours of the afternoon to the creeping half-way light that comes before dawn. It's my one source of entertainment. Of communication. Of free hot donkey-- er, I mean, of educational materials. It's also the surest way there is to get more potato-shaped than I already am, so I've taken to working out on a daily basis. I usually spend an hour or so pounding on the wall with my sparring gloves and doing calisthenics, which helps relieve any frustrations I may have immensely. I've also taken to walking up and down the beach. Preferably at night. While surf, sun, and sand will never make my top ten list of things I couldn't do without, even I have to admit that I live in one of the most stunningly beautiful places on the face of this earth.

Last night's walk was... much more eventful than I'm used to.

I had been walking along the shore for a good half hour, away from the hotels, the skeletal remains of concession stands and rum shacks that dry up and blow away when tourist season ends. I was wonderfully, delightfully alone. No idiots with double-wide baby carriages, no drunken teenagers passed out in the scrub, no startled Spaniards staring openly at my hair or clothes. No one else around for miles and miles; just me, the sea, and the pack of wild dogs fighting over something over by that rock formation just down the beach.

Shit.

We've got a bad problem over here when it comes to strays. People don't spay or neuter their pets. At all. It's just Not Done. Add to that the number of people who buy a dog as a cheap form of home security, then turn those same animals out into the street when they become too much trouble to take care of or feed and you have a serious Situation. In the summertime, it's not too bad. They tend to scavenge things from dumpsters, and large groups of people scare them off. The off season, however, is a different story.
These beasties are not afraid of a single human being, all by her lonesome. The dogs that have been abandoned tend to be a bit more people-shy, but the truly wild ones view us as just something too big to be eaten in one go. If you go out by yourself after dark, it's a good idea to carry a stick of some sort, in case any of them decides to test that theory about "one go."

I, of course, was an idiot. I left my stick at home.
Deciding that discretion was the better part of valor, I began to edge my way back up the beach.
Which worked-- until I heard a scream.

Shit! Shit shit shit!

I froze in my tracks, then swore. Reached into my pocket for my borrowed cell phone, then swore again. Shit shit shit shit shit. Why did I get the feeling that the number for emergencies here wasn't 911? I tried it anyway.
Yep, it wasn't 911.

I heard the screams again. The voice was high-- child-like.

Oh, fuck.

I scrambled about in the sand, looking for rocks, shells, bottles-- anything I could throw to distract those fuckers. I managed to find good-sized stone and ran at the pack, screaming. Most of the dogs scattered when they heard me. There were only two left standing over the body by the time I got there-- huge sons-of-bitches, german shepherd-demonspawn half-breeds. One was worrying at an arm-- the other, the stomach. I took aim and managed not to totally fuck up for once. Pegged one of the bastards right in the head. He yelped and ran.
One down, one to go.
I came closer. The other dog raised its head and growled. I swallowed, but kept on edging in.
And here's where it gets weird.
The kid-- who I had pretty much decided was down for the count-- started to get up. Or tried to. I could see the bones in his arm where the dogs had eaten away at it. The blood was fucking everywhere. He made these wet, mewling, screaming sounds, like a pig being slaughtered. As I came closer, I could see that most of his throat was gone; I mean, by all rights, this kid should have been dead. But he was still screaming, still trying to get up. There was no way he was going to make it.

And then he bit the fucking dog.

That was it. Kid or no kid, I was getting the hell out of there.
I don't remember how long it took me to run the three or four miles back home. By the time I got back, I wasn't even sure what I'd seen. I told my parents. They freaked out. Panicked. Insisted on checking me out for head wounds and freaking spinal injuries. We called the cops. They said something about looking into the matter and coming around to take a statement. We're still waiting for them to show up, as usual around here.

...One thing I'm sure of, though. I don't think I have the heart to make dead baby jokes anymore.

Dear everything2:

How are you? I'm good. I know we haven't talked in a while, and I'd just like to say before we get too deep into this that I'm sorry. Things have been busy, everything2; and it isn't that you aren't important to me (why do you beat yourself up like that? you know you are) it's just that sometimes in life we have to focus on our other obligations. I don't know if you remember, but we weren't seeing each other very much last year at this time, either; but if you remember, I was going through some real transitional life-type-stuff then, and you stood by me the whole time. Remember how I was reading that one node and I suddenly decided to apply for creative writing? And how I pledged to work hard on that quest, and really push myself, and just Go and Do It and Start Today like all those dusty, under-read books say? And I'll confess that yes, maybe I blew off the quest, but I did get into that program. That's right (or should I say write?) e2... I'm a real, honest-to-gosh writing student! And while it certainly isn't everything I'd hoped (you have to provide your own inflated sense of self-worth and tweed blazer) it is definitely helping me feel better about my station in life.

How about yourself? I have to say you really look to have lost some weight. I understand you're going through a bit of an identity crisis, but I want to reassure you that you'll always be the only collaborative user-modified database for me. I even saw that you made a book... I read some of it last week, and it looked really good! I'm sure you're happy with yourself. I've even heard rumblings that you're considering a bit of a makeover; and while I would never even suggest that you aren't wonderful the way you are, I think that some of your ideas could be really neat. I've even been trying to convince this guy I know to give you a hand with some of the technical details, so you can be sure I'm behind you one hundred percent. I even have a few other ideas for you floating around in the back of my head, and if I find the time, I'd like to try and make them a bit more coherent, and submit them for your perusal.

I almost forgot, did you know that November is National Novel Writing Month? I have to assume that you do, because you've always been so firmly planted on the ball in regards to this sort of thing. Well anyway, I'm actually going to try to participate this year. And I'm sure you remember how this sort of long-term, real-word commitment has never been very easy on me, I really think that this time, I'm going to do better. I've been doing two thousand words a day or so for the past week, getting myself in the mood... I don't really want to talk about my novel because I know you're going to laugh at me (don't even pretend you won't, you aren't fooling anyone) but I'm really feeling good about this one. It's a time of change, everything2, and you can be sure that when the dust settles, it'll still be just me and you, together forever.

love, cmyr